The Conscript
by Some Mad Person
Summary: Inspired by the opening scene of MI:2. Spies and sex always go together don't they. Maybe it's just Reno.
1. The Ghost and the Monster

{the conscript}

i. the ghost and the monster.

He thought he caught sight of a ghost that sidestepped the tawdry neon flashes and the laser dancelights. The ghost had limbs so spidery that shadows collapsed into intricacies of seaspray and dying butterflies in a scrupulous attempt to compliment it. 

(it was amidst the greys that were tinged with bottle-black and an unnameable kind of lavender, the greys that loitered and swirled anonymity in between the outbursts of capering lights; and through the impalpable entrails that dangled in the black air from lit cigarettes.)

Wryness crept up his astringent features, tugging deviously at his cheeks to form a kind of trademark smirk. He supposed he was in luck tonight.

And there were noises that wrestled each other in the bewildering air. The scream of ill-assorted guitars and frenzy of drumsticks upon goldmetal, each instrument slapping and pinching the watery songs to deformed lengths. Strange, bluemurky conversations ducked into the smoke and perfume that swathed about him, and he rose from the bar counter.

The ghost had raven hair that chanced a cloak of midnight every time he blinked. Perhaps it was the fault of the dreadful lighting, or probably the bewitchment of twelve o'clock itself, but he could have sworn that it looked, (but wasn't it supposed to be archaically _black_) somewhat indigo. And wasn't that _mahogany_ locks that ate into almond-carved eyes, eyes that saw nothing but watched everything?

According to the sheet of paper that was issued to him in a very immaculately bound folder, the eyes were _brown_. He couldn't absolutely be sure of his present verdict now, and it seemed that the universes of colour were not cooperating with his paperwork at all. 

His eyes watched hers as they darted from patron to patron.  

Or rather, from one wallet to another.

A gloved hand glided sinuously into the pocketbook of a middle-aged woman who was apparently much more fascinated with a rather fetching bouncer on her right. Seconds raced with the fingers and promptly lost, for the latter emerged beforehand to reveal its prey – a bulging leather purse.

He would have stayed on and observed the little pickpocket at work (with boundless amusement, or was that nostalgia?), when something jolted him out of his little spygame, rather crudely, in fact. Anyone would be disturbed to find one's groin area quivering in a passionate fashion. 

He grunted and reached into his trouser pockets, retrieving a fervently vibrating phs, an all too familiar name blinking in neon green on the plasma screen. 

"I hope you've not screwed up yet."

An array of teeth formed a cheerless sort of grin, even though the caller could not have possibly seen it through the cell phone. 

"Why, _hel-lo_ to you too, Rude."

"Have you even found the girl?" There was a slight burst of static, and he cursed the faulty reception.

"Of course I have. So do I get to kill her now?"

Rude sounded a trite exasperated, he thought. "Reno. We send her in, not finish her off. "

"Oh. Okay. It would be a pity too. Waste of good talent, that's what I call it."

"You call cheap pick-pocketing a talent?"

"Well. I suppose I have a soft spot for looters. I used to be a hell of a thief in my wilder days, you know." Her silhouette was playing a wily game of hide and seek with the slide of bluegrey against grey on the walls, prancing and pirouetting like a strange sort of pixie on hot coals, seeking unmonitored pockets, voluminous ones in the selfish light. 

 "You're a hell of anything you make out to be, genius."

He permitted himself a faint twist of lips. "That's the best you can do?"

"Don't push your luck." Rude almost grinned. "Back to business. You're supposed to bring her to the boss anyway, _alive. Heidegger wants her personally in his office, and he's giving you forty-eight hours to fulfil your task. Think you can handle that?"_

"What, you're saying she's gonna get away from a Turk?"

"Apparently a certain Gainsborough never came to mind, didn't she?"

"That Cetra had a fucking bodyguard, Rude." 

"Well this one _is a bodyguard. She isn't your exact definition of compliant, and you'll want to be a little more careful around her. It's been two years, but I'm pretty sure you understand how well she can pack a punch."_

A derisive snort escaped his throat. "Of course I remember her. That snotty kid from the rag-tag team. Look what a fine little bitch she turned out to be. And a rotten looter to boot."

Rude paused. "I thought you said she was pretty dextrous at her work."

"No I didn't." And before his colleague could quote what he just uttered two minutes ago in objective retrospect, he hastily added, "If she's letting herself get caught by me, she's not doing a very good job, isn't she?"

"Anything you say." 

"Anyway, call me back in two hours. Time to play police and thief." 

"Alright. And Reno?" 

"What is it?" 

"Don't count your chocobos before they hatch." 

"Good one, Rude. Tell me another." He muttered under his breath, but that was after Rude had hung up. 

He readied himself and proceeded to the dance floor, porcelain hips swaggering to the disjointed rhythms that pumped and froze and tore away at his soles of his feet, the serrated walls seemingly melting and shuddering with each step he ventured. 

The ghost was now no more than ten feet away from him, nipping and fluttering like a wingless sort of butterfly, her movements laced with the silky sheen of blood and ice. Noiseless boots sidestepped its inebriated, fog-washed neighbours, and a face in the garish lights sprouted a grin, widening and widening -

It was then that the ghost whipped around, windbitten eyes finding themselves locked directly upon those of the unfortunate, overconfident Turk. Orbs of jadeblue and brown collided, jerkily and fixating, while time shuffled like a cheapened cliché, pausing and ricocheting at all the ironic moments, and he accidentally blinked.

Which was a terrible mistake on his part, because as all ghosts do, she was no more, traceless and swapped with an intoxicated flurry of bodies in a fortuitous heartbreathe. 

Eyebrows raised with a twist of the skin beneath his lips, and he found himself grinning, although he did not know why, maybe it pleased him to see her all alarmed and horribly displaced. His sadistic mirth, however, was quenched by a burly figure who shifted, as if on purpose, directly in front of him. 

On second thought, maybe it _was_ done on purpose, for the large man (Reno could not even bear to label the unsightly monstrosity that cowered over him a _man;_ a decent-looking human being should at least possess eyes that were both fixating in the same direction, and have proper control over salivatory glands) had a sort of remarkable deftness, which he used to create an impression of the lanky Turk in the protesting wall. 

His head felt like cotton upon impact, as if tiny three-legged men were performing the koró boushka on the back of his skull with steel-capped boots. Beyond the dangling colours that burned curious shapes on his retinas, the music was still raging, the crowd seemingly oblivious of an impending brawl.

The nightstick emerged almost immediately, and Reno returned the favour with the adroitness of a panther - a series of mercurial moves choreographed with the push of a switch, and a putrid smell of burnt flesh swallowed the air. 

The massive opponent keeled over like a dissolving clayfigure, singed arms twitching repulsively in a futile attempt to snatch at Reno's ankles. The nightstick cackled hotwhite and cobalt, smiling silver tracing a vein-laced throat as its owner delicately placed a foot on the man's abdomen. 

It was then the Turk noticed a bronze ring bearing an unpalatably familiar insignia, curled around his attacker's index finger. It was an intertwine of two scaled creatures, their copper-coloured fangs disappearing beneath wristveins. 

"So, big guy. You're her little watchdog, aren't you?" Thin lips formed a humourless leer.

There was no reply, strange gurgling noises the only sign of his consciousness. 

"Tell me, then, what does your boss want this time? Gaunier's head on a platter? Security passwords? Or just the elation of two of his cronies nicely disposed off by one of his old time friends?" His fingers toyed coyly with the button that would issue quite a fatal result for the figure clambering futilely on the floor, almost rendering the finishing touch when uproar surfaced from the throng of revellers. 

" - Stop! _Thief_!"

"Hey! My gil's fucking stolen – "

He didn't wait to hear the rest, the last thing he ever wanted was to draw attention to his target. It would only make capturing her more arduous. Sneering in distaste at the man before him, he raised the nightstick gingerly.

"You might want to consider this your lucky day. Least I presume you won't be in suck a hurry to mess with the Turks now, would you?"

The man spat bitterly. "You haven't seen the last of us, Mr Lovelle."

But he had already left, the flicker of a flame-dipped ponytail colouring the air viciously.

.to be continued.


	2. Three Is Not A Crowd

{the conscript}

ii. three is not a crowd.

She did not like it when she found him staring at her. Those eyes - disarming yet acerbic, a complicated fusion of sky and ocean. They prickled the vessels that spun adrenaline and cackling glassbits beneath her skins, their gleams skittering like broken lights.

Of course she knew who he was, it was rather hard to forget the very faces and identities that were constantly spat on and used as crude dartboards in the boss' office. What she did not know, however, was the reason for his presence. 

"Sordid bars and Turks, " she declared to no one in particular, "They come hand in hand." She nodded unquestioningly to herself; it _was_ almost a conventional penchant for the Turks to sojourn these places. The fact that Reno happened to be at the Purple Hazard tonight had to be a sort of coincidence. 

Then again, it was not a coincidence for the Turk to be sober at the same time.

Which was a hitch in her little fun. She had Hulken to thank, nonetheless. The perfect distraction, and a rather propitious way to make herself scarce. Damn if he hadn't noticed a Turk on her heels before she had. She was alleviated, however, by her successful haul for the day. Six purses and a few elemental materias would probably sustain her for a while. A ricebowl that was dependant on her mercenary duties alone would never satisfy her financial needs.  

The secret basement was not difficult to locate; she swept away verdant fronds from a strategically positioned potted plant, experienced fingers effortlessly tracing a lever that was camouflaged behind it. Minutes later, she was seated coolly behind an office desk, a single data processor illuminating the caliginous room with its murky alphabets, foreign shapes taking on black feathercoats on the walls behind her like contorting hieroglyphics.

_Please key in password_.

"Password? I'll give you fucking password." She took to muttering beneath her breath, and without further ado, a miniscule hooked wire was selected from her tool kit and inserted into the hard drive unit. Digits swarmed and amalgamated like furious hornets, stream after stream of valuable codes rattling down in a distinctive sequence. 

Bingo.

It was now a matter of agonising minutes before the imperative documents were transferred into her compact disc. Transiently, she sensed a perturbed feeling which dragged itself from the back of her throat to her stomach, as if something was vaguely amiss. Everything seemed to be progressing a little _too _conveniently, especially for a task as important as this. 

A tiny ejecting sound sliced through her trepidation, and after restoring the computer track record to its original state, she covertly slipped the disc into a plastic case strapped around her left thigh. Her uncertainties sedated, she then proceeded to retract the wire from the device. 

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

His voice was almost jovial; a little patronising, as if speaking to a child. She stiffened instantaneously as he ambled down the filthy stairs towards her. 

"Nice try and all, babe. But I just can't help being so damned good at my work."

"Get the fuck out of here, Turk." Fingers discreetly enclosed over a handful of miniature shurikens, and before he had the chance to continue, the air was severed by a flurry of steel. 

He swerved to the left with unnerving nimbleness, darting to the other side of the room.

"Hasty isn't the way, sugar. And you might want to be careful with those things as well. Somebody could actually get hurt." He made no move to counter her attacks, his shadows leaping from a hundred million directions at once.

She found her patience wearing thin. "You're not leaving this place alive, not if I can help it."

The Turk raised a dubious eyebrow. "Temper, temper. That's exactly what I fancy about you, you know. You always want your way-"

Stormblue orbs narrowed precariously.

"-But this time, you're not gonna get it."

With astonishing swiftness, he swung forward and unleashed a harsh belt to the side of her head. 

She parried the blow and wrenched away, sweeping his feet off him as she tumbled to the ground. Reno cursed fervently under his breath as he felt her fist connect with his abdomen, and in one fluid motion he grasped her wrist in a vice-like hold before she could withdraw her arm, hauling her downwards forcefully. 

She was no match for his strength, and her face met the peeling, begrimed floorboards as he manoeuvred himself over her, fastening her arms tautly behind her back. She struggled frenetically, thrashing fitfully enough to chance a desperate kick at his face.

He loosened his staunch grip upon her as her boots found their target, swiping at his bloodied lip captiously.  

"Looks like I've underestimated you."

Electrical discharge surged and torched the room in myriads of whitesilver as he aimed his nightstick at her, but she dodged artfully, repaying the favour with another fistful of small daggers. As he sought cover to avoid the torrent of blades, she made a reckless dive to the computer desk and dislocated the wire in one crucial instant. 

Almost at once, clamorous sirens reverberated around them and a series of overhead ceiling lights sprung into life, encompassing the basement in an outburst of excruciating brightness and shrieking alarms. 

Spidery lashes quivered, her cinnamon eyes flickering from one end of the room to another as the sound of pounding feet resounded above them, trailing towards the camouflaged shaft, and then the trapdoor shifted open with a tormenting slowness.

Her mind was a gyration of bitter dismay, mottled pigments of garish red and black veiling her vision and train of coherent thought. The floor seemed to shudder involuntarily, taking her throbbing pulse with it as if they were silently adhered together by tethers of nerves and crossed veins. 

It was no doubt that she was going to be arrested. In any case, she would be facing a series of charges that would indubitably spell the death penalty. And then, they would notice the infamous little band that she wore as a second identity and discover that-

-_No_. 

They would _not_ find out. Not if she could help it. Tugging furiously at the bronze ring around her index finger, she prised it off and clenched it unyieldingly in her whitewashed fists. 

"Is there a problem, Reno?"

She balked at the florid, immaculately dressed businessman before her, trying to register Jaffrey Gaunier, primary objective and nemesis of their client, Quenton Incorporated, regarding Reno of the Turks with surprising cordiality. 

Which was twice the jeopardy. She presumed then, that Gaunier was probably their client, and that he had more than likely placed the confidential documents under their administration and custody. 

The _very_ documents that Slade had sent her to pilfer. It was no wonder then, that Reno had been lurking within the compound vicinity, grimly vigilant and lying in wait. 

He was waiting for _her._

"I heard the security alarms, Reno. Somebody was trying to break into-" Gaunier faltered abruptly as he tried to deduce the curious pair before him. A perplexed frown crossed his forehead, and he suddenly broke into a knowing smile. "Ah, I see that you've managed to nab the little spy before my guards have."

"Spy?" 

She felt her breath caught and sewn to the back of her throat like wet cotton, wary eyes panning from one burly guard to another. 

Reno broke into a twisted sort of grin, barely masking an artful leer that threatened to spill forth his lips. Striding towards his client, he draped a sloppy arm over his shoulder, chuckling almost a little too casually for her to disregard any suspicions. 

"You mean my subordinate over there?"

Her head snapped up instantaneously, mahogany orbs meeting waterwashed green, and she wondered what ruse he was trying to pull.

Jeffrey Gaunier turned to her, all traces of mistrust replaced with one that was mollified. "Your subordinate, " he repeated, his tiny eyes crawling lasciviously along the mooncurve of lithe, slender calves. "You Turks sure know how to pick 'em."

Reno shrugged, beckoning to her. "A rookie. She's new."

"New, eh?" Gaunier chortled. "Charming young lady she is, Miss…?"

"Kisaragi. Yuffie Kisaragi." She stepped forward, every skin and every softsilver fibre of her nerve the constitution of a Turk, as her lips curved into a wane smile. "At your service."

The older man nodded curtly, failing miserably to hide a grin that was full of dripping satin, bloodgold thoughts and sex.  Yuffie noticed his serrated lips, prune-like and colourworn, his yellow-ebbed teeth and body odour, forcing herself to comply with a demure flicker of lips. 

After all, she decided, if Reno wanted to play with fire, she supposed that she could as well. 

Three wasn't a crowd. Not just yet.

.to be continued.


	3. Morning Streetlamps

{the conscript}

iii. unpretty morning streetlamps 

Jeffrey Gaunier was unattractive and boorish, a swaggering length of hairy skin and slimy eyes that wrapped itself within the folds of sophisticated jackets and gold-rimmed cigars. He was smoking one now, inhaling ponderously as nicotine dragged its tendrils along greying bronchioles.  "So what is it this time, Reno? Another security overview?"

"Well, yeah." The Turk shrugged. She barely hid a commending smile; the nonchalance that trickled from lacklustre shoulders was deserving of some sort of award. "You see, my partner here hasn't been briefed on the case yet. We just recruited her services two days ago and the boss thought she would be a perfect addition for our assignment."

"Well, he's absolutely right. She's _perfect_." The older man was smirking now, stout fingers rubbing against the coarse papery skin of his cigar lasciviously, and she felt something bitter-saltish threatening to purl from her throat. Reno was still talking, unperturbed by her nausea.

"-Needed to show her the ropes, and check on the sensors at the same time, you know, that sorta thing."

"Very well. With the Turks in charge, I'm certain that my secrets are in good hands."

"You won't be regretting your decision, Mr Gaunier." Reno granted himself an insidious twist of lips. "In fact, Miss Kisaragi has effectively managed to correct any existing technological glitches, and should you need a second copy of the documents, I'm sure she'll have a backup ready."

He was being bitchy, and she glowered at him. Gaunier thanked them frivolously, his beetle-black eyes now trailing along her cleavage. Reno returned a smile equally as false, and cleared his throat. "In any case, we had better get going. The boss needs us back at the headquarters – "

"Oh, surely the charming Miss Kisagari would care to linger for a drin-"

"-Immediately." A puncturing gaze from the Turk withered the invitation, and drooling syllabuses died at crumpled, grotesque lips. Turning to her, he extended a hand. "Shall we, then?"

She accepted, and he was mildly amused to discover that her hand was calloused. It felt papery, her fingers small and veined with paleyellow lacerations. It seemed at first that she was leading the way out, though all too rapidly the hand that held hers wrenched her wrist into an excruciating yet unobtrusive hold. She stiffened but recovered quickly, and unfazed orbs posed a searching look.

"Is there a problem, Sir?"

He smiled back at her. "Haven't you forgotten something, Yuffie?"

She was biting back a hundred million urges to slap his teeth right out of that haughty, maddening mouth, but swigged down sourspit and rolling tempers and reached for the compact disc by her thigh.

"Thanks, sugar." He snatched the plastic case and handed it over to Jeffrey Gaunier with an apologetic grin. "Sorry about that. You know, being new and all. She does tend to be a bit of a scatter-brain."

The businessman managed an obnoxious chuckle. "What were you trying to do, Miss Kisaragi, make away with the codes?"  
  


The irony brought a kind of tasteless humour appeal to her. "Well, the thought _had crossed my mind."_

_____________________________

"Get into the car."

Rubber soles grounded viciously into dried grime, and she was furious. "Still think we're playing this stupid little game of yours, aren't you? Look, I don't know what you were trying to pull back there-"

The shove of a nightstick against her spine whisked away a further onslaught of oath-making, and her lips fell into an indisposed silence. "Shut up."

She did not, swerving around crossly, the lamplights capturing flailing arms and ricocheting expletives. " – Why, _excuse me_. I'm missing something here, apart from those extremely vital codes that I failed to acquire, no thanks to your fucking distraction – "

"You're welcome."

Her eyes were colder now, and he desisted a step backwards. "You goddamned bastard! Even if I screwed up the job, I could be walking out of the bloody thing."

"Well, at least you walked." 

She chose to disregard his last retort. "Okay then, if you weren't going to let me get away with it, then why did you let me go through it?"

"I don't think I'm obliged to tell you, considering I'm rather at an advantage here." His voice was unconcerned, and it did not seem to match his eyes, which were smothered over with a thoughtless sort of danger.  "I could _fry_ you."

"But you won't." 

He almost frowned. Her contempt did not sit well with him, and he voiced out his dissatisfaction with a twist of fingers upon steel. The nightstick dipped along the hollow of her neck and collarbone in a malevolent kind of caress, but she merely followed its shadow with impassive eyes.

"You won't kill me, because you _can't_."

There was an unnerving pause, and it slicked edgily at the back of his throat like wet cotton. The car headlights suddenly became very prominent and irksome at the same time, as if every insidious glimmer, every white-orange blink was dulling itself into his very breathing, throbbing and pumping along the veins that coiled about wary knuckles. 

Without warning, the nightstick was gingerly lifted off her and tucked beneath a slide of navy. 

"You're right."

She tried not to release the breath that shimmered and dipped into her lungs too quickly. "What do you want?"

"What?"

"I know enough of you Turks and the damned Shinra to expect getting my ass saved out of kindness. _What do you want_, Reno?"

"Maybe I _was_ thinking of recruiting you, if you could lose a bit of that catty shit and the insolence. Unfortunately, though, it isn't my position to make a final call on that matter. Anyhow, we'll see what Heidy has to say of your much desired assistance in the Shinra."

"Bullshit." She almost snorted. "Whatever it is you are talking about, there is no way you can possibly require my services after tonight's performance."

"Hey, you didn't do a bad job back there."

She cocked a sceptical eye at him. "Now you're apologising for me? Quite a gentleman, aren't you?"

"Not really." He held up a small device that resembled a remote control of sorts, and pressed the central button. Instantly, the discotheque behind them let loose with an ear-splitting shriek as revolving security alarms dipped the building into waters of blood. "You see, I triggered the security system."

She reacted too swiftly for him to expect, as unkind revelation left its fingerprints on her anger-flushed cheeks. Her fist was directed towards his face and he dodged it, but received the blow on his shoulder instead. 

She lunged at him once more, something like a strangled, sob-muted yell ringing his ears and churning even above the sirens. There was an unnatural kind of strength unfolding out within her like a malignant tumour that ate through her heart, and he could barely prise her possessed fingers off his collar, let alone block the flurry of harsh blows she dealt. 

A pant-covered leg found its way to her stomach, but still she had a larger surprise up her sleeve, for something sparkled in the confused dark and a superficial cut on his chest discoloured his shirt with light red. 

"You fucking bitch!" He was swearing now, and grappled for the knife, arms caught up in hysterical writhing that were joined hastily by legs, and they both lost their balance, crashing onto the dirty ground simultaneously. 

"It's your bloody fault, dammit!" Her words were not so unintelligible any more. "Now I can never go back!"

"You won't be able to go back, bitch!" He finally succeeded in pinning her down, the blade cast overhead to the pulsating gloom where a satisfying clatter was heard. "Not till the Shinra's done with you."

She was on both feet again, swaying slightly like a flickering wet candle. Her voice was lanced across with frost. "You can forget about the offer, Reno. I'm not fucking joining your gang of misfits-"

She was interrupted by the nightstick; the lightning was vehement in its attack and filled the insides of her bones with molten electricity. She slumped face first this time, silverwhite streaks cackling over her fallen form, and he rendered her side a couple of kicks. 

 "That's the _Turks_ to you, Miss Kisaragi."

He was being ferocious, and she refused to whimper. The sirens were soundless now, and his voice swarmed mistily above her.

"Have you learnt you lesson yet?" 

He dragged her brutally to her feet, hurling her against the wall while twisting one arm behind her back. She was immobile and breathing shallowly, her mind raking its fingers desperately in between sliding layers of consciousness. 

"_Have you_?" His mouth was right next to her ear now.

She did not reply, and he slapped her forcefully. "Think a lousy Hex like you could get away with this? Hmm?"

And then something wet was tracing her jaw line, his tongue a drag to insanity and a sadistic insult at the same time. Her legs were unsteady and the fog seemed to purl sluggishly amidst thin ankles in a slow coagulating process. "Did you think you could be much better off with Carlson and his rats-" His head was lowered beneath her chin now – "Than to ally with _us_?"

He did not even know why his words were reduced to a sleekish whisper, but the skin behind her ears and at the dip of her neck was tripping his senses, stretching and twisting his brain matter into broken delirium and dried firecrackers, and he bit down on it. 

"Nn..no.." She was speaking at last, but he ignored her, his free hand ascending silkily under the hem of her dress. Her eyes scorched, and his fingers felt like cold acid – they withdrew so facilely she felt pinpricks rushing and assailing her all over before dissipating into a spiritless swirl of imaginary gold-white lights.

"You will obey the Shinra." He sported a brazen grin and liberated his vice-like grip on her, that she may turn around to a considerable extent. The moon played along and shed a wraithlike beam on her face, turning her into a ghost once more; the ghost that capered and drifted through dancing hoards and glasses of cheap beer. She matched his grin with one of her own, only hers was wider and exotic in a chilling way, twin reds parting like a licentious pandora's box.

"Always the manipulator, aren't you, Reno."

He found the change in temperament disconcerting, but took up her bait with nary a thought. "I told you, I'm good at my work."

She bestowed him with a listless nod, feeling the films of deceit seeping through her pores and encompassing them both even as she turned away from him.

"It's impolite to turn your back to your superiors, you know."

Her smile waned a little. "Oh _fuck you_, Reno." 

His palm connected with powder-dashed flesh, and the roseate on her cheek darkened. She barely caught her breath, for the force that followed his slap hurled her onto her hands and knees.

"You never learn, do you, Kisaragi?" 

She rose to her feet, one hand mauling the lapels of his jacket for support. The ghost was a hairbreadth away from his face before he knew it, and then her mouth silenced him.

They parted, barely, her nose still grazing his own.

 "Then teach me."

Lips on lips once more: heat-snagged breath purloined the air, and sex dangled with night quixotically as two bodies moved and thrashed on the alley. Grappling fingers that clawed at one another and the sound of torn shirts were all that his mind's eye devoured, and suddenly she was panting and swathed under coloured sheets that he recognised as his own. Midnight stole away, daunted by the madness that pounded and pumped in his dishevelled apartment, and she was screaming. Screaming and screaming, screams that were joined by his own as rumpled clothes stood watching by the floor.

.to be continued.


	4. Epilogue

{the conscript}

iii. epilogue  

Morning was still dead and decayed when streetlamps traced a flicker of fleeting skin and half-worn shoes. Heels upon dirty cement, clutching fists a smudge of beige as they sliced and carved invisible particles in the air, and she was running. Past the seedy bars and litter-wracked alleys, past outstretched legs that were draped piteously with moody-coloured rags, and out of the mouths of racy lights and bitter lying sex. 

The gil was tucked neatly in a pouch around her pumping waist, along with the purloined materia. Yuffie almost smiled, until she realised that there was nothing remotely worth being pleased over. 

And Reno was still sound asleep, one arm languidly drifting over muskfilled sheets, with thoughts of a promotion and Yuffie prettily locked in the Shinra cells by dawn cascading over sleep-drenched eyelids.

finis. august.twenthfifth.2002

author's bit.

i know i've been rather pathetic because this story took me two years to complete. a tremendous thank you goes out to all readers who have waited ever-so-nicely for this installation. yuffie may have escaped the turks, but now she has nowhere to go. the next scene heralds office politics and heidegger's wrath on reno in episode iii, _knights of a lesser table_. (in the meantime, i'll be concentrating on episode i, _spider in the looking glass_.) 


End file.
